


one rule

by poiregourmande



Category: Buzzfeed The Try Guys (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Vignettes, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 13:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18235292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poiregourmande/pseuds/poiregourmande
Summary: “I only have one rule,” Eugene says. “You can’t fall in love with me.”Andrew has to laugh at that. “Oh, is that all?”“I don’t do coworkers or roommates,” Eugene says, as if it weren’t a completely absurd rule.“Why does it even need to be a rule anyway?”“Oh, you’ll see. I’m irresistible.”





	one rule

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchetypal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchetypal/gifts).



> i need to thank anarchetypal for hyping me up for the ship, coming up with a premise, and coining some choice dialogue i've used almost as is here.

I

 

Andrew really lucked out when he moved to LA after graduation. In less than a month, he had a job at a young, tiny media company, and two weeks later, he had a roommate. 

He couldn’t move in with Adam, his friend from college who found him a job at Buzzfeed — the guy was awesome and they were tight-knit as they come, but he couldn’t stand roommates. 

“I need my quiet,” he said, “but I hear Eugene’s looking for a new place.”

Eugene was funny, creative, nice and helpful if you were on his good side, and frankly, Andrew could hardly find a better roommate, so he agreed. 

Arrangements were made, an apartment was found, and soon, they’re sitting on Eugene’s couch in their new living room, using a pile of boxes marked  _ Andrew  _ as a coffee table. 

“I only have one rule,” Eugene says, pulling a slice of pizza from their second takeaway box and ignoring his dog Pesto’s attempts at stealing it. “You can’t fall in love with me.”

Andrew has to laugh at that. “Oh, is that all?”

“I don’t do coworkers or roommates,” Eugene says, as if it weren’t a completely absurd rule. 

“Why does it even need to be a rule anyway?”

“Oh, you’ll see. I’m irresistible.”

“And humble.”

“Especially humble.”

Andrew shakes his head and clinks his beer against Eugene’s. “Promise.”

“Thanks.”

“Need me to pinky swear too?”

“No need — beer promises are binding.”

  
  


II

 

Pizza and beer becomes their Friday night tradition — that’s how they start the evening before Eugene goes out dancing or seeing a drag show and Andrew stays home reading or goes over to Adam’s for game night. 

“We should see each other naked,” Eugene says casually one Friday, cracking open a beer. 

Andrew chokes on a mushroom. “I’m sorry, what?”

“There’s nothing to it,” Eugene says, patting him on the back until he stops spluttering. “I’ve seen all my friends naked at one point.”

“You’re serious.”

“You can’t live with someone you’ve never seen naked, because then it becomes this huge thing. This tension. Trust me, after you’ve seen someone naked, nothing’s a big deal anymore.”

“What about your rule?”

“You fall in love with someone because you’re wondering what they look like naked. We just have to break the mystery before it takes root.”

Andrew wants to say that Eugene seems to have a very skewed conception of love, but debating, like everything else he tries, seems to be Eugene’s strong suit. Might as well get this over with. 

“Sure, okay.” Andrew takes a large gulp of beer before standing up, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

Eugene undresses like he does this everyday, like it’s no big deal. Where Andrew’s tempted to hide his junk behind his hands, to fold in on himself, appear smaller, Eugene is standing wide, hands on his hips and a grin on his face. Not that Andrew’s looking. 

“You have to look, for it to work,” Eugene says. Andrew does so with a sigh. “See? Don’t you feel like we’re closer as roommates now?”

“Can I put my clothes back on?”

Eugene chuckles, a dark, warm sound that sends a thrill down Andrew’s spine. “Sure.”

Andrew gets dressed, wondering if the feeling of Eugene’s gaze burning his skin is just in his head but not daring to look. 

So, the mystery’s broken. 

 

III

 

“What do you think?” Eugene asks, twirling into the living room wearing a red leather jacket and —

“Is this a skirt?”

“Uh-huh.” Another twirl. A pose. 

“Looks good,” Andrew grunts, going back to his book to hide his blush. He doesn’t know why he’s blushing — according to Eugene’s theory, Andrew shouldn’t be imagining what Eugene’s ass looks like under that skirt because he’s already seen him naked. 

_ He’s seen Eugene naked.  _

See, the thing is, Andrew never thought about what Eugene would look like naked before Eugene himself brought it up. Now, it’s all he can think about. 

So much for that theory. 

 

IV

 

Andrew’s bored. He’s home alone, there’s nothing good on Netflix and he’s already jerked off once — battling all thoughts of skirts and tan skin out of his mind. He probably should go to bed, but something’s thrumming under his skin, a pulse that’s too quick, too hard. He knows he’d lie in bed unable to sleep until he’d pass out two minutes before Eugene gets home, drunk and rowdy. 

Adam sends him a text that’s just “ _ wild” _ , along with a link to a Pinterest page about a crazy-looking omelet on rice. 

 

Andrew —  _ challenge accepted  _

Adam —  _ what? no I didn’t mean you should make it, I just thought it was cool _

Andrew —  _ I think I have all the ingredients here _

Adam —  _ it is one in the morning _

Andrew —  _ yeah and Eugene should be home in about an hour, drunk enough to eat everything even if I fuck it up _

Andrew —  _ it’s win-win _

 

Andrew fucks up indeed. Three times — either he leaves it too long to get the runny egg effect on top of the rice, or he doesn’t even manage to make it roll like it should. He’s forced to stop after the third fail for lack of eggs, and ends up eating fried rice straight from the pan, sitting on the counter top and sipping from a bottle of bourbon, flinging bits of carrots at Emma the pup.

That’s where Eugene finds him, when he stumbles his way into the kitchen, glitters smeared across his cheeks and down his chest —  _ don’t look down his chest no matter how deep his v-neck goes _ . 

“Oh good,” Eugene says, hopping on the counter next to Andrew, “I’m starving.”

He takes the first failed attempt — a sad-looking omelet slowly drooping down the side of a rice mound — and shovels it down his throat, only pausing to moan about how good it is. 

Andrew finds himself strongly engrossed in the label on the bourbon bottle, ignoring the way Eugene’s thigh presses against his, or all the filthy noises coming out of his mouth as he eats. 

“Fuck,” Eugene sighs, setting the empty plate aside. “This hits the spot.” He groans, rakes a hand through his hair, and Andrew obstinately stares at the bottle. 

“I don’t ever wanna eat anything else when I’m drunk, damn, this is the best.”

Andrew feels his ears reddening at the praise — or maybe it’s the bourbon?

Eugene’s voice is slurred as he hops off the counter, takes a huge bite out of Attempt #2, and says, “Fuck, I love you.”

Andrew sits on the countertop long after Eugene has disappeared to bed, long after the rice has gone cold, long after the first rays of sunshine peeked through the blinds. 

 

V

 

Andrew starts cooking more often from then on — real meals, not misshapen drunken accidents. The look on Eugene’s face every time Andrew sets a big, steamy bowl in front of him quickly replaces the skirt, the legs, the tan skin in Andrew’s mind. 

It’s something Andrew wants to see more often, wants to be the cause of — wide, un-self-conscious smile, eyes bright, gratitude and — is that admiration?

Andrew doesn’t really warn Eugene before he does it — warm pancakes on a late Sunday morning, lasagna one night after work, he just does it whenever he feels like it. He doesn’t want Eugene to feel obligated to sit down for a meal with him, to have a routine together, he just wants to surprise him. 

But every time, without fail, Eugene pulls out a chair and eats with him, and Andrew gets the feeling —because Eugene always sends a few texts before sitting down with him — that Eugene’s blowing off someone or something to be with him. 

He can’t help the warm feeling that spreads in his chest at that. 

 

VI

 

“Y’know,” Andrew says one night after polishing off a delicious pad thai, “I was thinking of getting a cat.”

“The shelter closes at eight,” Eugene supplies. 

“What?”

Eugene is already by the front door, slipping on his shoes and grabbing his car keys. “Let’s go, bitch, I’ll drive.”

“We can’t impulse buy an  _ animal _ , Eugene.”

Eugene throw Andrew a jacket. “That’s how I got Pesto and Emma.”

“You don’t even like cats,” Andrew protests. 

“Yeah, but I like — I mean you like them. Good enough for me.”

 

VII

 

Three days later, Andrew walks into the living room in the morning to find Eugene, asleep on the couch, an old episode of Drag Race paused halfway through on the TV, but most importantly, with Wellington, Andrew’s new kitten, snoozing away on his chest. 

Eugene blinks himself awake. “Mmmmorning,” he groans, and Andrew tries not to focus on his rough voice, his hair sticking up all over the place, and his naked chest — god, his  _ naked chest.  _

“Morning, Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Cats,” Andrew teases, as Wellington cuddles closer, his face snuggling into Eugene’s neck. 

“Shhhh,” Eugene says, gently petting the kitten, “you’re gonna wake Wells up.”

“You gave him a nickname,” Andrew notices, trying to keep all fondness out of his voice. 

He  _ cannot _ fall for Eugene, no matter how tender he acts with their — um, Andrew’s — cat. 

 

VIII

 

Sometimes, when Eugene comes home tipsy, he’ll sit down with Andrew and watch Netflix with him if he’s still up. 

On a totally unrelated note, when Eugene goes out, Andrew now tries to stay up, pick a show he knows Eugene would like, and curl up with Emma, Pesto and Wells until he comes back. 

Sometimes Andrew might take an early night nap to make sure he can stay up late. 

But this is nobody’s business but his own. 

Tonight it’s a baking show. When Eugene comes home, a bit earlier than usual, Andrew notices, he sits down real close to him — the rest of the couch is occupied by the pups and Wells, sure, but the armchair is free. They watch in silence for a bit, until Eugene groans.

“God, I’d suck dick for pancakes right now.”

“I could make pancakes,” Andrew answers without thinking.

Even Pesto seems to feel the tension, because he stops trying to hump his sister and freezes.

“I — I just meant — you don’t have to — I just meant, I’m, y’know, capable of — I make good pancakes, is all.”

Eugene smiles, unaffected. “I know. And I give good blow jobs.”

 

IX

 

Andrew is beating eggs like he’s never beaten eggs before, like the eggs have personally insulted his entire family and kicked his kitten.

He’s got to, cause if he doesn’t he’s gonna have to go back to the living room and face Eugene, whose casual offer to suck his dick still rings through Andrew’s ears and makes his knees wobbly. 

He can’t accept, right?

It would be ridiculous.

They’re roommates, things are going great between them, Andrew’s doing a wonderful job keeping his feelings bottled up. He can’t jeopardize this for a hasty blow job in the kitchen. A payment for the pancakes.

Right?

Right.

 

X

 

Eugene wipes whipped cream from the corner of his mouth — because of course they had whipped cream in the fridge, life likes to be perfectly aligned to torture Andrew. This is the exact second Andrew knows he won’t refuse if Eugene asks another time. 

“These were fabulous pancakes,” Eugene says, stretching his arms above his head with a groan like he’s about to call it a night. “Blow job worthy pancakes,” he adds.

“Eugene, you’re drunk.”

Eugene just rolls his eyes and walks around the kitchen island to reach him. “You did something nice for me, just let me repay the favor.”

Andrew white-knuckles the kitchen counter — to keep from pulling him in or pushing him away, he doesn’t know. All he knows is he’s been hard since he started cooking, and Eugene’s hand is less than an inch away from his crotch.

“Eugene,” he gasps out.

“I gotchu, honey,” Eugene says, pulling Andrew out of his pyjama pants. 

It’s a fabulous blow job. Pancakes worthy.

Then again, Andrew wouldn’t have expected anything less from Eugene — he is, after all, great at anything he tries, and he probably has lots of occasions to perfect his craft.

It’s especially amazing because Eugene is not just skilled — he’s also enthusiastic about it. Like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than kneeling on their kitchen tile and suck his roommate’s cock. He keeps looking up to see Andrew’s reactions, which, of course, slays Andrew every time. He can’t let himself get lost in these gorgeous dark brown eyes because that might let out some stuff that would best stay bottled up. No matter how velvety and deep the eyes look. 

Listen, Andrew likes orgasms as much as the next guy, but this one, even though it’s not particularly premature, comes too early for his taste. Letting Eugene suck his cock is easy — he just has to stand there and enjoy. What he dreads, though, is the after.

How do you go back to being platonic roommates after discovering what his mouth on your cock feels like? 

How do you stop yourself from breaking the rule?

 

XI

 

The rule has been broken weeks ago, if Eugene’s honest with himself, but it took him a while to realize it. Maybe he just didn’t want to see it. Maybe he was happy ignoring the truth.

One Friday, after work, he’s having drinks with some coworkers — the single ones, the ones who don’t race home at five on Friday to slip into sweatpants and their partner’s arms — when someone suggests shots.

Eugene ignores the voice in the back of his head pointing out that according to his usual script,  _ he _ was supposed to suggest them. Instead, he declines and flags a waiter to pay his tab. 

“Home already?” Kelsey jeers. “It’s not even seven!”

“Andrew said he’d be cooking, I don’t wanna make him wait.”

“Aww,” Curly sighs, his chin in his hands. “I wish I had a husband waiting for me at home with a nice meal.”

“Mood,” Kelsey says, stealing the rest of Curly’s wine. “Say, Eugene, how’s life in the fifties?”

“Very funny. Don’t you know it’s only polite to get there on time when someone’s cooking for you? I’ll probably join you at the club afterwards anyway, say, eleven-ish?”

Little did Eugene knows that eleven o’clock would find him sitting on the floor against Andrew’s legs, throwing balls of foil at Wells and having the time of his life.

He knows he’s screwed when he turns back to see Andrew laughing and all the air leaves his lungs in one sharp  _ oof _ .

 

XII

 

Eugene might be significantly less hungover than usual for a Saturday morning, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys getting woken up at the asscrack of dawn — okay, seven — by a famished cat walking on his face and howling.

“I swear to god, Andrew, if you don’t get your fucking cat right now — ”

“Why is he always  _ my _ cat before nine AM?” Andrew calls from his room across the hall, “you called him your son last night.”

“Don’t you take my drunk quotes out of context, Ilnyckyj!”

“You weren’t drunk, we had one glass with dinner.”

Somehow, this is more embarrassing to Eugene than ‘forgetting’ to meet the others at the club, or falling asleep before midnight with a grin on his face. The fact that he did all of it sober. The fact that he might have never known happiness like this before.

Eugene’s breaking his only one rule, and the worst thing about it?

It feels good.

 

XIII

 

Deadlines and stress are par for the course in their line of work. You learn to deal with it, but every once in a while, it seems like every single person at the office wants something out of you at the same time, and in these moments, there’s only one thing to do. Escape to that one conference room on the third floor that’s barely used because it’s too small for any kind of real meeting and the lighting is bad. 

Eugene settles in, laptop and headphones, and starts answering emails, with the blissful sigh of someone who knows he won’t get bothered here.

Of course, this is when the door opens and shuts behind him. Eugene curses under his breath and wheels around, tugging his headphones off.

“What.”

Andrew’s standing in front of him, hands raised in apology. “Sorry, I just — I saw you were stressed out and figured you could use a little pick-me-up,” he says, setting a to-go cup of coffee on the table.

Eugene’s face softens. “Oh. Thanks, that’s… really sweet of you, actually.”

Andrew steps forward, and is entirely too close as he grabs the back of Eugene’s chair to twirl it around.

“Here,” he says, and his voice is different — softer, almost like he’s purring, “this always helps me.”

He starts giving him a shoulder rub, digging into hard knots and relieving the tension, his fingers warm where Eugene’s collar opens.

Eugene feels each of his worries disappear as he sinks into his chair little by little. He feels amazing, like he could fall asleep right here and now, but the one feeling that stands out, is that he really wants to kiss Andrew.

It’s not an especially new desire, but somehow, until then, he’d always managed to chalk it up to alcohol, or the domesticity — it’s not about Andrew, it just feels nice to have someone to come home to and share your life with.

Now, completely sober and at work, all excuses peel away, and he turns around to see it in Andrew’s eyes.

A reflection of his own desire.

Eugene stands up and pushes Andrew against the table, cupping his cheek. Their lips meet for a second, just enough to test the waters, but Eugene knows.

“It’s a stupid rule.”

  
  



End file.
